Part 11

At this rejoinder there was a roar of laughter--Frisky's mistakes were many, especially in English composition--and most of the girls returned to their desks satisfied, or at least indifferent; but Doreen Priestly remained by the notice-board, looking doubtfully from Violet to Sally.

"A funny sort of mistake, isn't it?" she said quietly. "I believe you are shielding the kid, after all."

"I didn't do it, I tell you," said Sally fiercely. "You may think me a cad, but I'm not that sort."

"Sally didn't do it--I'm not shielding her," said Violet. "Do drop the whole thing--can't you? It's my essay."

Miss Cheeseman came in at this minute, and the subject was dropped; but the scene that had just taken place had two results. First, that to Sally's burden of unpopularity was added a vague accusation of underhand dealing, and, secondly, that an end came to all friendship between herself and the Cat.

This was not Catherine Dowl's fault, as she was careful to point out that afternoon, when she tracked down Sally at last in a deserted corner of the playing fields.

"So it was Violet Tremson's own sin that found her out," she began gaily, as though there had been no words between them.

Sally clenched her hands. "Shut up--and leave me alone, can't you?"

"But why?--I'm sorry if I annoyed you this morning--but really, I have more cause to be annoyed with you, only I know you lost your temper."

"Shut up," said Sally again; and then, as the other raised her eyebrows, "Oh, you know quite well that I don't want ever to see you any more--do go."

"Why, may I ask?"

The Cat's eyes were more slanting than usual, and there was a gleam in their corners that reminded Sally of a vicious ferret, belonging to her brother Bob.

"Because ... because I may be unpopular, and hard up for friends, but I'm not in such want as to be forced to be friends with you."

"Oh--so that's it, is it?"

Catherine Dowl's lip was drawn up till her gum was partly bare.

"You precious little fool," she said, and her smile became a snarl. "You mean you accuse me of blotting that essay and destroying the arithmetic paper?"

"I know you did," said Sally. "I saw the way you looked in class and every minute I've thought it over since I've become more and more certain. Trina Morrison told me you cheated, and Frisky says you do, and I believe them both now, though I wouldn't before when I was trying to like you."

"Perhaps you'd care to report me for cheating then, and bring your proofs with you to the prefects' meeting--they are holding one this afternoon, in the Sixth."

The smooth voice had a snaky ring, and for the minute Sally was frightened. She had spoken impetuously, from the heat of her indignation, and had not thought of proofs--where were they? Just the gleam in the Cat's eyes, as Miss Cheeseman had spoken. It was a very vicious gleam now, and the snarl had changed back into a smile of triumph and malice.

"You'll do it ... of course ... and bring the proofs, eh?"

Sally suddenly forgot her fear. "Very well," she said contemptuously. "Come! I will go to the prefects, and ask them if we can have a trial by ordeal--like in history. I'll say you are a cheat before the whole school, and put my hand in the fire without shrieking to prove it. Will that satisfy you?"

Catherine Dowl's jaw had dropped. "What do you mean? ... I don't understand ... it's childish and silly--what you suggest."

"I prophesy you won't find it silly," said Sally grimly. "Just tell me this--If I accuse you of cheating before the whole school, and you deny it, and I put my hand in the fire, to show I believe what I say--do you think they'll believe you or me?"

The Cat was silent. There was no doubt, with her reputation, which the school would believe. When she spoke again, her voice had its usual flat note of indifference and the snarling smile had disappeared.

"I suppose you are joking--of course, you must be--and so was I. It would be stupid to drag in prefects about our private rows, and I am sure, if you don't want to be friends, I don't. I thought you looked lonely before--that was why I tried to chum up."

"Well, I like being lonely, thanks--so ... good afternoon."

Sally turned on her heel. "Ugh!" she said to herself, and again--"Ugh!" as she thought over her short friendship with the Cat, and ended with a fervent, "Thank Heaven, I never let her kiss me."

CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH

MISCHIEF

Sally had now no friends, and had lost her only admirer. She found her work in Form a struggle, and life in the dormitory a severe test of her self-control, for it seemed that Poppy Bristow was ever on the watch to catch her out in some misdeed and punish her.

One night the trouble arose because of beetles in her slippers. Anyone might have been forgiven for shrieking aloud at the discovery made with bare feet; but Sally got 300 lines, as well as having to endure a mocking chant from the next cubicle, as soon as the prefect's back was turned:

"Sally Cock-sure, Sally Cock-roach,"

and then a faint crow.

There was no doubt who was the real culprit.

A few evenings later Poppy burst into the dormitory, purple with fury.

"My bed!" she said. "An apple-pie! ... Which of you has dared?"

There was a faint giggle from the irresponsible Frisky, and then complete silence.

"Which of you?" demanded Poppy again: and then, "Violet, I know it wasn't you?"

"No."

"Susy?"

"No, of course not."

They each answered "No" in turn, and Frisky whispered, "Perhaps you'll have to go round the school to find out," when the prefect said, in a nasty voice:

"Oh, no, I shan't, for the someone who is afraid to own up has left her gym. belt on my floor, and it has got a tape name. Sally Brendan, is this belt yours?"

"Yes--if it has my name on it."

"How d-dared you come into my room?"

"I didn't."

"You little l-liar!--Why, I have the proof here--complete evidence. You must have done it."

A storm of abuse followed, endured in silence, while Sally considered who the real offender could be, and at last wearily gave up the matter. Perhaps Olive Parker, at the instigation of Susy Cranstone, or it might be the Cat's way of getting even with her--one of her many enemies, at any rate.

"I didn't do it," she repeated, when she could get in a word. "But if you like to think I did--well, I can't help it."

"I know you did it, little brute! Why, I have the proof in my hands--this belt with your name on it. You can just go straight to bed, after supper, for the next fortnight."

This was not a punishment that Sally minded. With any luck, she could read in bed, and at any rate she would escape the loneliness of the evening play hour that she had grown to dread.

"All right," she said, and for the next eight days went upstairs quietly, straight from the dining-room, being apparently asleep when the rest of the dormitory appeared at their usual hour.

One night, however, the spirit of mischief entered into her.

As she came in at the door, she saw, on a chair beside it, Poppy's hockey stick, sweater and cap, as she had carelessly flung them down and forgotten them, in the course of a dispute with Frisky Harrison on the state of her cubicle. Sally was by no means the only person to get into trouble with the prefect.

No one was about: not even Matron, or one of the maids, as Sally tip-toed over, and peered into Frisky's cubicle. It was extraordinarily tidy for once, but when Sally had finished working her will in it, very little of this was left. The bed-clothes, for instance, were in the chest of drawers, whose proper contents lay in little heaps on the floor: the shoes stood in a row on the pillow: the washing-stand was upside down on the bed, and on it Sally piled the hockey stick, jumper, and cap that she had found by the door.

With a subdued giggle of joy at her handiwork she retired into her own cubicle and hurried into bed. Frisky was late coming up: she often barely avoided detection and this night slid into the dormitory like a shadow. The next instant came her shout of surprise and indignation.

"I say, who has done this? Sally Brendan, is it you?"

"Done what? Do go to bed, Frisky, and be quiet." This from Violet Tremson, in a sleepy voice.

"But I can't, you ass. There's every sort of thing on my bed, including my washstand."

"What?"

Susy was soon peering over her partition, and Violet standing in the doorway, staring. They talked so much and so loud that they were speedily joined by Poppy; and last of all came Sally, already repentant of her rashness, but determined to see the thing she had engineered through to its end, even if it meant expulsion.

"You little beast!--you were up here early, so, of course, it's your handiwork," said Poppy, turning and gripping her by the wrist.

"Why me? I've been asleep," said Sally, yawning. "Do let me go back to bed. I thought it was something interesting."

"Very interesting--for me," retorted the indignant Frisky. "When I've got to clear up the mess. It's like your cheek."

"Sally shall clear it, of course," said Poppy. "And to-morrow I report her to Miss Cockran."

"But what proof have you got that Sally did it?" said Violet Tremson, in a cool judicial voice.

"Well, she was up here early, wasn't she? She must have done it."

"Anyhow those aren't my things left behind in the cubicle, and I don't think they are Frisky's," said Sally, pointing to the cap, jumper, and hockey-stick, that lay on the upturned washstand. It was the opportunity for which she had been waiting, and the note of injury in her voice was full of meaning.

"No, of course they aren't mine," said Frisky, examining them, "They are sizes too big. Why, Poppy, they are yours--however did they get here?"

There were a few seconds' silence before the joke that had been played dawned. Then Violet Tremson's mouth began to twitch.

"I'm afraid," she said, "they walked in here of themselves, like Sally's belt into Poppy's room, the other night, or else----"

She stopped suggestively, and Susy, from her seat on the wooden partition, gave a convulsive cackle of joy.

"Or else what? Say what you mean--do," demanded Poppy, whose brain was working, as usual, at a snail's pace; she was obviously uneasy.

"I mean that in another case (of course, you didn't do it, Poppy, we all know that) the clothes would be proof--evidence that whoever they belonged to must have done it."

"Like the belt, the other night," murmured Frisky, her eyes on the floor, to hide their laughter; but Poppy could read it in her attitude, as in Violet Tremson's voice, and Susy's sudden noisy scramble down behind her partition. She had been badly scored, and they were glad, because, though Sally was unpopular, the average schoolgirl likes fair play, and they knew that of late she had not had it.

The prefect's face went a dull purple as she glared from one to the other (Sally had wisely slipped back into her cubicle), then she picked up her things, and said in a strained voice:

"If there's another hoax of this kind, I'll report the whole d-dormitory."

The door slammed behind her, and no one said a word, though Violet and Susy assisted Frisky to put her things straight. That night Sally was happy until she fell asleep, and so, apparently, were the other inmates of her dormitory, for every now and then she could hear them stifle their merriment in their pillows.

The next day she could feel a change in the atmosphere of her Form.

"Ripping score, that of yours last night!"

Sally was so surprised at being addressed in a pleasant tone by anyone, that she looked up speechless at Frisky Harrison, who stood by her desk, grinning. Frisky went on confidentially:

"Bet you that we won't have any more trouble with the 'Poppet' down our way, this term."

"No," said Sally cautiously. The instinct to boast, "Oh, just a little brain-wave on my part," had died away, almost as it was born, and she did not yet know what kind of amiable remark to make instead.

Rather awkwardly, she picked up a book from the floor, and her companion left her; but the incident was significant of the new attitude of her classmates. Friendly they could hardly be called, but she no longer felt a pariah like the Cat, and found herself lending and borrowing books, pencils and indiarubber without any of the cold-shouldering to which she had grown accustomed.

Violet Tremson alone continued to ignore her presence, never addressing her except when compelled, and then with eyes that looked beyond her, as though she were non-existent. Last term Sally would not have minded; now, she wished she had not been so rude and contemptuous in thrusting aside the other's advances.

True, Violet had not the same exciting personality as her once beloved Peter, but, on the other hand, living in Form with her, the younger girl realised that she was neither "dull as ditch water," nor "goody-goody." It may have been that with Trina's influence removed she was able to enter more into the kingdom of good-natured chaff and schoolgirl politics; but at any rate, there was no doubt that Violet had grown immensely in popularity.

This was partly due to her success in games during the autumn term.

Her cricket had been a very medium performance, but swift running and steady nerves put her amongst the best of the hockey players, and from the second eleven she was very quickly promoted to be a forward in the first.

By this time the school as a whole, and not merely her own Form, had begun to take an interest in Violet Tremson. The Upper Fifth and Sixth showed a readiness to draw her into their select circles and ask her opinion, while school weathercocks, such as Mabel Gosson, hastened to worship the rising sun.

It was no surprise to anyone then, save perhaps to Violet herself, when her name appeared on the list of prefects posted up on the school notice-board towards the end of the term.

"That means we are done with 'the Poppet' for good in Dormitory A," said Frisky. "Oh, Violet, I am glad!" Susy clapped her hands, and declared Old Cocaine had more sense than she had given her credit for. Sally alone said nothing aloud. She was not going to "toady to the great," she told herself, in scorn of Mabel Gosson and her kind, but she was secretly thankful for the change.

It would be easy, she guessed, to live with Violet Tremson, who, whatever her private likes and dislikes, was even-tempered and scrupulously fair.

By this time Sally was looking forward eagerly to the holidays, when Uncle Frank had declared he and Aunt Antoinette might be in London and give her a week of theatres and other festivities. The hockey fever that reigned at Seascape House did not touch her, for the doctor still forbade her to play, and she did not care enough for anyone--not even for her Form--to be thrilled over the results of various matches. Her chief pleasure was taking Autolycus for walks, since Miss Cockran, in consideration of her not being able to share in games, and on a solemn promise that she would conduct herself so as not to disgrace the school, allowed her to go out alone with the dog, mainly on one of the back roads leading to a certain Tadiscombe Farm.

"It would be better if there were someone with you," she had said, but did not press the point when Sally, terrified that Catherine Dowl's name might be mentioned as a possible companion, since she also was not strong enough for games, hastily declared everyone was busy, she knew.

"I can trust you to be sensible, can I? And not get up to mischief?" said Miss Cockran, frowning slightly. "It's a very great concession from ordinary rules that you are asking me to make."

"I promise I'll be as good as if you or Miss Castle were with me, and I would just love it, please, if I may? I used to roam the country at home."

"Yes," said the Headmistress, rather grimly, "So I have been told. It is just that kind of roaming--playing practical jokes and breaking through hedges, trampling down corn, etc., that would bring disgrace on the school."

Sally flushed. "Well, I won't do anything of that kind--indeed I won't--I'll just mind Tolly."

Miss Cockran smiled, and her face cleared. "Very well," she said. "And if you try to teach him to 'mind' you, I believe you will have your work cut out. He pays no attention to anyone when he's after rabbits."

"He's a great sportsman," said the girl proudly; "I only wish I had my brother's ferrets here."

"I'm very glad you haven't, or the pair of you would be shortly on trial for poaching. Don't let him chase rabbits more than you can help. Remember, I have lost one dog that way, and this cliff here is a labyrinth of holes."

"Very well, Miss Cockran, and thank you so much."

Sally went off cheerfully, whistling to Tolly, whom she found in the garden. Once the school gates were passed, she was her old self, confident and care-free--and yet, at heart, she knew that she did not hate Seascape House as she pretended.

"If only it was just a little different," she told herself, and added with the natural candour and insight which had prevented her from becoming a hopeless prig, "I expect Roger would say it's I who ought to be different."

CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH

GAMES AND TOFFEE

One Saturday morning towards the end of November, Sally woke to a dripping world, on which the rain not merely descended in sheets, but was driven at intervals, in howling gusts, against the windows. Outside, the garden was already a series of ponds, and the sea heaved sullenly on the horizon, its grey monotony of waters only broken by the foam that seethed here and there amongst the rocks.

"Just our luck! No match, of course!" the hockey eleven was grumbling at breakfast, forgetful of all the holidays which had managed to be fine; and Sally, though she did not share their reasons for mourning, was none the less sad.

She had been planning a walk with Autolycus, and instead, she would have to spend the afternoon in a corner of the Fifth Form play-room, watching the rest of the class enjoy themselves. They had lately fixed up a ping-pong table, and were practising for a tournament; but no one had asked Sally or the Cat to join in the games.

When she entered her Form that morning, however, Sally's prospects changed, for she found on her desk an envelope addressed to herself, and inside, a card:

+---------------------------------------+ | MISS CASTLE. | | At Home. | | Don't R.S.V.P. 3.30. | | but come. Games and Toffee. | +---------------------------------------+

It was obvious that Miss Castle had done as she suggested in the sanatorium last term, and was giving a toffee party. It was just the day for it, and Sally, looking round, wondered who else would be there, and whether they would spoil the fun by being nasty to her if occasion arose.

"I'd much rather have been alone," she muttered, and then felt slightly more cheerful as she heard Frisky shout, "Oh, hurrah! How decent of her," and realised that she was also to be one of the guests. There had been little malice about Frisky of late; instead, a toleration that was on the borders of friendliness; a very pleasant change from the beginning of the term, when she had seemed to share in Susy's enmity, and abet her efforts at causing annoyance.

"I wonder if Violet Tremson will be there as well," was in Sally's thoughts; but Miss Cheeseman came into the room and there was no opportunity of finding out till the afternoon.

Sally arrived rather late (she felt strangely shy), and found the toffee-making already begun; but Miss Castle gave her the saucepan to stir, so she was soon seated on the hearth, comparatively happy, with something to do.

Frisky was acting taster--giving little screams as her fingers dived for sample pieces of boiling toffee which had just been dropped into a glass of cold water.

"Scrumptious!" she said. "It's just like glue." And when this description was received with laughter, she went on to try to say, "Sister Susie's sewing shirts for soldiers," with her mouth still half-full.

Sally looked round her and saw Violet Tremson on the sofa, with Doreen Priestly, and the fat good-natured girl--Decima Pillditch--who had been head of her dormitory during her first term, and was now a prefect, in the Sixth. There was no one there below the Lower Fifth, and Sally could not help thinking how furiously jealous Susy Cranstone would be when she heard of the party afterwards from Frisky.

Susy was in the Remove now--Miss Castle's own Form--but even with this advantage she had not, according to her own version, made much headway in capturing her divinity's affections.

"She hates me--I know she does--and I just do everything I can to please her and make her notice me," Susy had moaned the other evening, flinging herself on her bed. "I think I shall just go out and drown myself."

Frisky, to whom this confidence had been made, but loud enough for either Violet or Sally to overhear, had hardly been conciliatory.

"Don't expect she exactly hates you--just bored stiff with you," she suggested. "Why don't you be a little more cheerful with her?"

"I can't! I just tremble all over when she comes near. I really will drown myself soon, if she's so cold to me."

"In which case, she'd only forget you thankfully, wouldn't she?" Violet Tremson had said. And then, "Why are you such a sentimental ninny, Susy?"

Susy had been deeply offended, and after saying, "I wasn't talking to you, Violet," had relapsed into tears. Sally supposed there would be more tears that evening, for Frisky was not likely to keep silence about the toffee-party, especially if she had enjoyed herself.

The toffee cooked and put to cool, she and Sally, as the two youngest, washed up; and then the party, all formality and ice broken by the sweet-making, settled down to games. At first they were of the intellectual order, "Geography game," "Telegrams," and finally a strenuous "Alphabet List," in which, taking a certain letter, everyone present had to fill in examples that began with it opposite such items as, "a king," "a novel," "a character in Shakespeare," "a vegetable," "the first line of a song," etc.

One of the letters chosen was "A," and Frisky at once distinguished herself by putting down "'aricot" as a vegetable, while Sally made a great score with "Autolycus" as "a character in Shakespeare."

It was just the kind of game in which Sally's memory and instinct for amassing information scored, and, after Miss Castle, she came in a good second.

"Well done, Sally!" said her hostess with a smile, and there was a murmur of quite friendly agreement that made the object of their approbation blush.